I’m reading about the Desert Father and Mothers, the abbas and ammas who went out during the 4th century to escape the
world and become one with the heart of God. I’ve been intrigued by these good
folks for a while, attracted both by their love of solitude in the desert
landscape, and also by their willingness—maybe even their eagerness-- to give
up everything to be closer to God.
This book I’m reading now that talks about their departure
from the world, their escape from a European world where Christianity had just
recently become legal and, in fact, normal. Their fear was that Christianity’s acceptability
would lull people into taking it for grants (bingo), as well as the
well-founded concern that the noise and busyness of their lives would draw them
away from God and His will. Theirs was an almost-Buddhist like idea, also quite
Biblical, of course, that they needed to empty themselves and give up
everything in order to gain the eternal Everything.
I struggle with this. As I write, I’m sitting in our modest
little desert cabin, surrounded by the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo mountains
on one side, the foothills of the Rockies on another, and being entertained by
a little western blue birds (not the insistent, nagging bluejay, but the bright
blue, round-headed little blue bird), I feel I’m in that thin place, near
holiness. But what am I giving up in return for this beauty and quiet place of
contemplation? Nothing! Oh wait--we don’t have Internet or even cellphone
service out here, for Pete’s sake! But, really, what kind of privilege even
brings me here in the first place, what luxurious wealth of time and money?
What, for that matter, were those 4th century desert hermits actually
giving up when they retreated from the world? When you think about it, the
lifestyles of even the most wealthy and powerful people of that time and place
would be unimaginable to us today—a world (mostly) without books or
antibiotics, greasy meals concocted from unspiced food, information that
traveled no faster than a person could walk, nights that started with the
setting of the sun. And so. . . the desert fathers and mothers felt they
needed to escape even from THAT? So where does that leave us, who live in a world
almost too abundant for human habitation?
To think about this roils my waters a bit. Let’s continue to
think about it and return to it another day.
(I wrote this a week
ago and that quiet day in New Mexico seems very far away already. But the
question still remains: Does God call people like us to remove ourselves from
our world like he called the Desert Mothers and Fathers? What do you think?)